


Winter Drabbles 2020

by koturneto



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Coronavirus AU, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Multi, Post-War, Ravenclaw Hagrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28234047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koturneto/pseuds/koturneto
Summary: A collection of drabbles, each inspired by one wintery word. Submitted for the Harry Potter Fanfic Club's Winter Writing Challenge.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Dean Thomas/Harry Potter, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Lavender Brown & Hermione Granger & Parvati Patil, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	1. ice

With a flourish, Hermione dabbed one last line of purple icing across the last shortbread. Filling the last tin, she hollered, “Harry! Hurry up, Ron’s already there.”

Levitating tins and bags, Harry and Hermione stepped into the fireplace and emerged at the Burrow. Ginny ushered them to the kitchen, where the rest of the biscuits sat on long tables around the edge.

As Hermione finished transfiguring tin lids to festive platters, Ron appeared to help arrange the shortbread. “Blimey, Hermione, six dozen is a lot!” he said in awe as they stacked and sorted.

“Yes, and thanks for your help,” she scoffed, but her eyes softened.

With the last sweets out, Dean tapped his glass to get everyone’s attention. “Friends and lovers, and friends-soon-to-be-lovers!” He winked at Neville, who flushed and pretended not to look at Hannah. “Welcome to our second annual Christmas cookie swap. We celebrate the season and how lucky we are to be together another year. Enjoy!”

Hermione grabbed a plate and went down the line: Neville’s vanilla shortbread hearts. Seamus' usual gingerbread, this year iced with Dean’s twinkling constellations. Luna’s sage-smelling tree shook its branches when touched. “Try George’s for me?” she whispered to Ron. “They look all right, but after last year…” She giggled at Harry’s chocolate chip cookies _with_ sprinkles - childhood wish-fulfillment if she’d ever seen it - and took two.

As her dearest friends spread back out through the Burrow, Hermione’s plate was as full as her heart.


	2. gift

Lavender starts it with an enchanted wreath ornament for each first-year Gryffindor. 

Hermione, loathe to owe Lavender, spends all year tweaking charms. When Justin is petrified, she almost keeps all the roaring lions, but Pavarti asks about the striped packages and so Lavender gets one too. They’re even.

Until Pavarti surprises them both in third with hand-sewn Binky and Crookshanks, dangling from silver hooks. They decide to make a tradition.

Fourth year, they exchange baubles Christmas morning. They wish each other well for the Yule Ball and mean it. 

After the last DA meeting of 1995, they laugh uproariously when both Lavender and Hermione give galleons with “Happy Christmas” on their edge.

Hermione barely speaks to Lavender during their sixth winter. She gives Pavarti a large, spell-blown glass teardrop; Lavender gets a small, dented sphere. After Lavender breaks up with Ron, she smashes the glass to tiny shards as she cries.

Next year, Lavender and Pavarti meet in the Room of Requirements to pretend anything is normal. Hermione crafts ornaments on the run. Later, she can never figure out where she lost them.

At Lavender’s funeral, Hermione remembers the spiteful sphere. She always assumed she’d have years to make it right. She seeks out Pavarti to sob.

That Christmas, the two women slip away to meet at a grave. They conjure a miniature tree that sparkles with hundreds of unique ornaments, trade an embroidered lavender plant for a lavender glass heart, and promise to remember every time they decorate.


	3. family

“Dear… kind… Dumbledore… damn it, what comes next?” Neville wrung his hands above his head. “Where’s that parchment?”

“Right here,” Hannah said patiently. “Under your book again. Here: Dear kind Dumbledore came over for good soup.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. Dear kind Dumbledore came… out?”

“Well, no, but it rather works anyways…”

“Let me see that.” Neville snatched the parchment and glared at it, rising to his feet. “Is this _supposed_ to be easier to remember? I can picture Dumbledore all right, but coming over or going out? Eating soup or pudding or Merlin knows what? I’ll never pass this degree.” He crumpled the parchment in one fist then sank his face in his hands.

“Neville… I have an idea.” He looked up at Hannah hopefully. She gently tugged the parchment free and smoothed it on the table. Neville watched her chew her lip as she wrote, scratched out, and rewrote, her determination calming his breath yet speeding up his heart.

“I’ve got it,” she said finally. “You can tweak it, but I do think the image will stick now.”

Neville leaned a hand on her shoulder as he bent down to read:

“DUMBLEDORE’S KINK DEPENDS COMPLETELY ON FINDING GRYFFINDOR SOCKS”

“Hannah!”

She smiled wickedly. “Well, Hufflepuff socks just didn’t fit!”

Neville sat next to her in a rush, free hand grabbing hers. As he looked into her eyes, he knew he would remember. For Hannah - he could memorize anything.

Not that he could forget now if he wanted to.


	4. gold

The press called us the Golden Trio. Gold. Like perfection. Purity. Wealth.

What if we are the Wool Trio? We are cozy evenings in the common room, comforting softness, warm like a Weasley sweater.

What if we are the Sand Trio? We spent years slipping through Voldemort’s fingers, and the fires of war hardened us into breakable glass.

What if we are the Ruby Trio? We live our lives with inner fire and our courage shines like the hilt of Gryffindor’s sword.

What if we are the Wax Trio? We were called upon to preserve, defend, burn, produce, becoming life-like statues in the public mind.

What if we are the Wood Trio? We are holly, vine, willow; layers of friendship built up over time; growing into the full spread of our boughs.


	5. crackling

The wireless crackled, and Harry drew a sharp breath. “Come on,” he muttered. One more twist of the dial, and McGonagall’s voice sputtered through: “-as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse-” Harry grabbed parchment and quill and tried furiously to get his bearings. He’d only missed the first 10 minutes this time. But then - “...mind...dinner…” and it hummed again with static.

“Piece of junk!” yelled Harry. Uncle Vernon bellowed, “Keep it down!” but Harry was beyond caring.

Hogwarts was forced to close in March with little plan. For nearly two weeks, Harry heard nothing. Isolated to his bedroom, would he know if everyone were dead?

Professors tried owled packets and Floo before announcing the Wizarding Wireless channels for lectures. By the time the news escaped Aunt Petunia’s mail quarantine, every manufacturer had a waiting list years long. Harry copied Hermione’s notes that spring.

At last, McGonagall snuck an ancient school loaner past the Dursleys. The connection was finicky, and Harry couldn’t use underage sorcery to tune it. Hours after he finally wrangled it to life, Harry heard _“Cedric Diggory”_ among the day’s dead. He buried the device in his closet until August, when Sirius coaxed him out of skipping his entire fifth year.

Every dropped syllable emphasized the deepest loneliness of Harry’s life. And yet that frustrating crackle was his only lifeline to a world outside this bedroom, the world where he belonged. Harry sighed and reached again for the dial.


	6. tree

**_Shredded Parchment, 1978_ **

After my first full moon at Hogwarts, I hated the sight of you. No longer were you the awesome guardian Dumbledore had promised my family. I kept my eyes down as I walked to the greenhouses and never looked that direction if I could help it. “I know your secret,” you taunted me. “You don’t belong here.”  
Later, you were one of the many subjects of Sirius’ extensive notes. Even then, he wanted to know everything about me and more. Did you know that the Hungarians call you _fúriafűz_ , or “Fury Willow”?

Over time, you became a co-conspirator - the Professors trusted you so much to keep me in that they never looked for someone sneaking me out. They underestimated by far my friends’ idiotic brilliance, didn’t they?

Truly, I feel silly writing this. I thanked the professors, wrote Madame Pomfrey every flowery expression of gratitude she deserves, flattered James, gave my dear Sirius my most scandalous thanks, remembered Lily, Peter, and the rest, and was just sitting down to write my last to Dumbledore when I realized there was one more I couldn’t have done without.

While I can’t say I’m torn up over our parting, I _am_ glad that you have kept me alive, a secret, and therefore enrolled for seven years. Thank you. Perhaps I’ll see you again if enough of us live to see offspring off to Hogwarts. 

May your springs be pleasant and days unbothered by foolish students,  
With gratitude,  
R.J.L.


	7. travel

“Welcome, Rubeus. Sherbert lemon?”

“No thank yeh, Headmaster.” Hagrid settled into the oversized chair.

“I must say, your application surprised me. I thought that you planned, after the war, to continue studying your manticore hybrids.”

“I did think ter, sir. It’s my life’s work. And yet, when I foun’ Lily an’ James-” he sniffed loudly as his eyes welled up. “ - an’ carried poor little Harry out - I realised I want ter make sure this never happens again. Maybe, here, I can protect those who are different and disrupt old prejudices.”

He sighed. “I spent half my first year in the hallway strugglin’ with riddles, an’ the other half sneakin’ crup puppies under my bed. But older ‘claws taught me up an’ defended me from whispers an’ worse. Would yeh believe it, I never woulda asked permission ter keep Aragog without ‘em helpin’ with the club paperwork.” Hagrid grinned. “Mind, I realise I’m s’pposed ter be convincin’ yeh I’m responsible…”

“Fortunately, we have all grown up since our third years.”

“We all grew up too much my third year,” Hagrid murmured. “I remember the day Myrtle stumbled into our Common Room, bloody an’ pale as the Baron.”

“We were lucky then.”

The pair sat silently a moment, heads bowed.

“To be honest with you, Rubeus,” Dumbledore broke in. “Your magizoology credentials are unquestionable. And I trust you with my life. The position is yours if you want it.”

“I would be honoured, sir.” He grinned.

“Then welcome home, Professor Hagrid.”


	8. dreary

Through windowpane fog, Draco just made out Dean pushing Harry down into the snow. Harry lunged back with a charmed barrage of snowballs. Scarlet and gold scarves slipped down to expose laughing faces, dark skin flushed with cold and joy. Harry tipped backwards to make a snow angel. Dean knelt in Harry’s wing and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

Draco sighed, sipped his tea. As usual, he was a snake in the lion's den - capacity for playful abandon the least of his differences...

Draco startled from his preoccupation as the two tumbled through the doorway, all cheeks and chatter as they shed soaked layers. Harry noticed - always noticed - the last of Draco’s pained expression before he smoothed it away. In a blink, Harry crossed to brush his palm to Draco's cheek. Heat bloomed despite the cold touch. Draco opened his mouth to reassure-

-and felt a handful of icy slush plunge down his collar. Draco yelped and whirled. Dean roared with laughter, just out of reach. Writhing away from the frigid drops, Draco shivered for a different reason at Harry’s mischievous twinkle.

“We missed you, Draco. Wouldn’t feel right to leave you out of the fun.”

Much later, Draco leaned back contentedly into Dean’s warmed hands kneading apology into his shoulders. The fire cast shadows where six legs tangled on the shaggy rug. Harry leaned up for a lingering kiss, and Draco’s heart thrilled at his fond expression. Neither lion’s den nor snake’s burrow: this was their home.


	9. spice

“Black, Potter, Lupin, Pettigrew!” Professor McGonagall called across the Great Hall. “Get over here!”

“Gosh, Snape, are you all right?” said James innocently. Snape’s face, currently under inspection by Madame Pomfrey, was red up his ears, down his neck, and to the tip of his huge nose. His eyes watered, denying any force from his glare.

McGonagall held a half-full bowl. “Mr. Snape claims you have tampered with his meal. A burning potion, seemingly with a doubling charm. What do you know of this?”

“No idea,” frowned James, looking concerned. “But, that looks delicious!’ He stepped over before anyone else could react and helped himself to a full spoonful of the stew.

Half the staff started in shock until they saw James licking the empty spoon, smiling broadly. “Try some, Padfoot!” he said, scooping another spoonful for his friend.

“Mm, quite nice, give my compliments to the elves.” His voice rose slightly at the end.

“They’ve targeted it to me! Test it!” spat Snape.

“I surely will,” McGonagall said coolly. “That reckless stunt satisfied me that you are complicit, boys. We will see in what. First, Mr. Snape, to the hospital wing.” They swept him away.

Beaming and shrugging at onlookers, the Marauders headed back to their table. “Well done, mate,” whispered James to Sirius. “Mum would be proud.” Sirius nodded wordlessly, starting to look pained. Remus summoned a large glass of milk which Sirius gulped thankfully.  
* * *  
POTION ANALYSIS REPORT  
HORACE SLUGHORN

MEAL CONTAINS CURRY POWDER.


	10. star

“I’m sorry, Remus. I’m a lot to be cooped up with.”

“It’s fi-”

“No, let me finish. Please?” Remus finally looked up. “Just…after twelve years, I thought I was done being trapped inside.” Sirius shuddered.

Remus played with the page between his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “That you’re stuck with me. And in such a small place, it isn’t much...”

“Remus, what the hell?”

“What?”

“You’re the best part of this damned lockdown. You’ve kept me sane, with your conversation and music and your fucking sourdough bread starter. Sure, I’m trapped, but at least I’ve _got_ someone.”

Remus swallowed at the intense look on Sirius’ face. When he said nothing, Sirius’ gaze fell.

“Just tell me when I need to move on, though.”

Remus frowned slightly. “Sirius?” he said softly. “You do know I’m glad you’re here?”

The dark-haired man looked confused.

“Neither of us is okay right now. But you and I have been through shit, Sirius. We’re still figuring out how to be proper friends again, fine. But I’ve loved you since we were twelve years old-”

They both started. Remus nibbled his lip for half a second, then shook his head.

“No, I meant what I said. It’s not the same as it was, but then that wasn’t the same as the twelve-year-old version either.” He looked directly into Sirius’ eyes for the first time in weeks. “I’m glad you’re here, Padfoot. Okay?”

Sirius smiled softly. “I think I will be.”


	11. fleece

Hermione perches in the tree, both arms around her knees. The cold wind chaps her cheeks but clears her mind. The Burrow bustles with warmth and Weasleys, and she needs space to think. She tugs on the sleeve of her pink fleece, idly noting a thread starting to fly loose.

What to do? When Ron first returned, she practically jumped into his arms to apparate him home for their best sex in months. They stayed up for hours after, talking in a way that letters could never match. They share covers, pass plates, and brush their teeth together. It’s nice. Four months of splurging on portkeys for one weekend together had worn them tired and raw. But they’re good, now. Right? Hermione picks at the loose thread.

Could she do this again? Ron leaves again in two weeks. They count down the days even as they pretend not to, savoring each minute while mourning its passing.

She loves Ron. She always will love his wide grin, his generosity, the way he knows her like nobody else. The jealous boy grew up into the man who steadied her through nightmares. She twirls the thread around her fingers. Pros and cons. Him, them, her. Past, future, present. 

The wind surges, Hermione shivers, and the thread breaks with a soft snap. She knows.

Hermione stays a while with her decision, listening to her own heartbeat and breath. She pushes off from the bark and slides down to the wet grass.


	12. blizzard

A few flakes leaked from the sky, tossed on puffs of wind. Harry traced their meandering descent to the slushy tarmac of Privet Drive. What a rubbish year. At Hogwarts, the first snow brought laughing fun and meant holiday break drew near. This year, it barely shifted the only view he’d had since March.

Harry knew he needed to think about the letter eventually.

_Dear Harry,_

_How are you?_

_You may already guess my news. The Ministry decided that no households will be able to meet for Christmas. Operation Chimney is off. Snuffles wanted to risk it anyways, but there is just no safe way. I am so sorry. We wanted to see you and I know you were looking forward to the respite._

_We are thinking of how to celebrate with you in spirit. Stay tuned._

_-R.J.L._

He thumped down on his bed and cried like he hadn’t in years. Waves of grief poured from him. He couldn’t be angry; they were right, after all. He needed both of them healthy and free from Azkaban. But, he thought he was numb by now, numb from months of storming and yelling, already disappointed in every way possible. Now this, too?

He could avoid a blizzard, stay in with his hot drink and sturdy roof and watch the drifts pile up outside. But what could you do about a freeze that creeps in over months, chilling your heart, dulling your will to keep moving even before you realize you’ve stood still?


End file.
